Those who come late will get grass and rainwater.
Oh, am I not? Vroom vroom, I went, lickety-splitly, down to those lovely folk at Olson Cherries who had kept my name on a secret list for six months. I murmured my password at the till and handed over moneys; they slipped into the back and produced a box with my name on.
Just in time for yogi night, too: so I get to show off my inferior pastry skills once more (and Karen wonders why I make so few puddings, although she calls them desserts). Now that I have a freezer with a lower drawer, I am testing it out: the butter is in there, also the flour and all the various parts of the whizzywhizz machine. There will be ice also in the water, and we shall see what we shall see.*
Meanwhile, I am testing out my new chopstick technique for stoning cherries. Butt end of the chopstick, applied with confidence and rigour to the butt end of the cherry: six out of every ten, I estimate, the stone just pops out cleanly**. Confidence is important; the more you dither, the messier things get. As in so many facets of life, I find.
*Also, I'm going to top-load the game with an almond oaty crust and pouring cream. By the time they get through cream and almonds and cherries, nobody's going to care about the bloody pastry underneath.
**NB, not an actual statistic. It just feels to me like more often than not, the stone comes out sweet as a nut. Sometimes with some force. And of course you get to lick your fingers after.